Never An Easy Way
by XWaltzforVenusX
Summary: RyanTaylor. The fifth installment of Chino-verse. How is everyone coping in the aftermath of Kirsten leaving?
1. Too Low to Find My Way

_Chino-verse? Really? _

_I know, I was shocked, too. But this is totally for Lori, who requested it and got me writing. It's only going to be an interlude like 'Saints', taking place in the aftermath of 'Moving Forward'._

_Also, because I know it'll come up in reviews (yes ORy, I'm looking at you), I TRIED to make this smutty. And the subject matter would totally be perfect for it, but it just didn't work out. Sorry… And as always, Chino-verse makes me nervous when I post - and it's worse this time because school and work have been kicking my ass. So I hope it's alright._

_Anyway, enjoy._

_Music: 'Never an Easy Way' by Morcheeba, off the album 'Who Can You Trust?'_

* * *

…

_**you think I'd learn by now, there's never an easy way**_

…

* * *

She steeled herself before knocking - a habit she had only recently picked up – and waited for the muffled answer before going in. He lay on his bed, headphones in his ears, book in his hands, and he barely looked at her when she entered. He merely nodded in her general direction and she sighed, closing the door behind her.

He had stopped asking her why she started to knock before coming in – she never answered properly. Well, she _answered_ but she didn't tell him the truth. The truth was that it had become all too frequent that she would walk into the pool house to find him shirtless, emerging from the shower or sweaty from a workout. If she knocked, at least then she knew he'd be fully clothed when he answered, just in case it was one of the Cohens. Not that she didn't enjoy the view, but she tended to go all non-verbal when he was half naked, and she needed to get herself under control. The less power he had over her, the better the chance she had of _not_ succumbing to his kisses, of not letting him press her down into the mattress. The knocking thing hadn't worked yet – she'd been doing it for about two weeks now, but it didn't seem to matter _what_ amount of clothes he was wearing, she always got overwhelmed by him.

She was determined, this time, that there would be _no_ losing control. She wouldn't let him strip her down and spread her legs. No. Not this time. It's not that she didn't _enjoy_ having sex with him – she did… _a lot_ – but it wasn't healthy anymore.

Because it's _all_ they did.

He barely talked to her anymore, unless it was about something trivial or about how much he wanted her.

Not _loved_ her; _wanted_ her.

And he definitely didn't talk about what happened. It had only been a month since it all went down: Trey leaving for good, Caleb dying, Kirsten going to rehab. She knew – he didn't have to tell her – it was the last one making him act like this. Kirsten had gone to rehab.

It had shocked them all – even Sandy, who figured it all out. And that was probably the worst part for Ryan, she thought – that he hadn't seen it coming. Sure, he – like everyone else – may have registered an increase in Kirsten's alcohol intake, but they hadn't expected the outburst at Caleb's funeral – the out of control spiral that ended in an intervention that sent her packing. Taylor hadn't been there, but Seth had more than made up for it by going into vivid, horrifying, detail about everyone's words, feelings, reactions.

She sighed, placing her purse on the bar and sitting near his hips on the bed. He tugged the headphones out of his ears and put down his book.

"Hey." Well, it was _something,_ at least.

"Hey," she took his left hand in both of hers; holding it tightly and feeling him stiffen. "Ryan, we should talk."

"About what?" he mumbled, shifting his gaze away from hers to stare across the room. She sighed.

"About… everything. Trey, Kirsten…"

"Taylor," he let out a forced laugh, "I'm fine." She opened her mouth to protest, but he lifted his trapped hand, pulling her forward to fall onto his chest. His other hand slid to cup the back of her head, drawing her in for a kiss. It was lazy and unhurried, and she groaned into his mouth, which he took advantage of, sliding his tongue between her lips and making her brain shut down. He got his hand free of hers, sliding it around her waist and pulling her tight against him as he rolled them both over until she was on her back.

Damn it. How did she always end up like this? Despite all of her pure intentions and well thought out anti-seduction plans, she always ended up on her back with Ryan's mouth planting heated kisses on her neck and his hands roaming her body. Somehow he managed to move her legs apart, settling himself between them as his mouth continued to lick and suck its way to her collarbone.

"I love," he started, and her heart leapt, "when you wear skirts." She resisted the urge to let out a frustrated cry as his hand slid up her thigh, pushing the fabric of her skirt up to bunch at her waist. She knew that Ryan wasn't big on the whole _share your feelings_ thing, _and_ that she was incredibly needy, and that sometimes love went without saying, but this was getting ridiculous. And it wasn't in her head, which she'd thought at first - because she was crazy and she definitely blew things out of proportion - but he didn't even say it back when she said she loved him. He didn't even say 'me too', or something else equally as lame. No, whenever she said 'I love you' he said 'yeah'.

_Yeah._

"Ryan," she started, and was greatly relieved when he pushed himself up, sitting back on his knees. She opened her mouth to continue about how they needed to _talk_ when he lifted his shirt over his head, and the words died in her throat. He gave her a confident smile before dropping back down to rest his forearms on either side of her. What did she want to say? Something about talking?

What was the point in talking when he was grinding against her, biting her bottom lip, hand sliding under and up her shirt?

* * *

She lay on her side and stared at the far wall, the books propped up amongst the vases and decorations that had been here before him. She could just imagine the pool house before – spotless and decorated with colored glass in soothing blues and whites. It was still clean, but Ryan had invaded every inch of it – his books in the bookshelf between the vases, his gym equipment in the corner, video games and controllers sprawling like vines over the TV, his food in the kitchen, his things in the bathroom.

He'd taken over the pool house and made it his own and she couldn't help thinking that he'd done it to her, too. He was part of her life and – as pathetic as it made her sound – he was part of her. She remembered how she'd been before – perfectly kept, always clean and polite and proper. Then he came and made her into a real person, adding little touches of humanity to her otherwise spotless white furniture and glass decorations.

And – lying on her side, staring at the far wall – she felt, for the first time, _dirty_. Not in the good way, either. She felt dirty and used and for the first time – lying in the bed with Ryan – it felt wrong.

Even this past month hadn't felt wrong, it just felt weird. Like something was off, but it would go back to normal. It didn't feel like that now. Maybe she had a breaking point, she couldn't tell, but this time, it was wrong.

She sat up and didn't look back at him as she stood, looking around for her discarded underwear. He hadn't even bothered to get her naked, he'd just torn off her underwear and did his thing.

God, it even _sounded _dirty.

She left him there, sleeping, and got in her car and went home.

* * *

"What are you doing?" Summer asked, throwing a look over her shoulder. Taylor grunted as she pulled her socks up.

"Getting dressed," she huffed, blowing her bangs out of her face before grabbing the other sock.

"I see that," Summer rolled her eyes, turning back to her computer, "but _why_ are you wearing _that_ in the middle of summer?"

Taylor bit her lip and looked down at her outfit: a tank top, t-shirt, sweater, leggings, shorts, pants, three pairs of socks, and her coat. She pulled her last sock on and shoved her feet into her shoes. "Because I'm going to see Ryan."

"And Ryan lives in Canada?" her friend shot back, turning fully to face her now that she was interested in what was going on.

"No. Does this make me look fat?" she stood up, turning to the side.

"Well, you have, like, a million layers on, so a little."

"Good." Taylor picked up her bag and headed toward the door.

"You wanna tell me what's going on?" Summer waited, but her friend didn't answer. "Or don't," she grumbled, spinning back around in her chair.

* * *

She was a sweaty mess by the time she reached the Cohens, but that was a good thing. The worse she looked, the better chance she had of not… ending up like she usually did. He answered the door as usual and she went inside, closing the door behind her. It wasn't until he'd pulled his headphones out of his ears and put down his book that he noticed her outfit.

"What the hell are you wearing?" he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. She stayed standing, holding her purse in front of her – just one more barrier.

"Clothes," she answered, shifting nervously from foot to foot. "We need to talk."

He stood up and frowned before walking toward her. "It's too hot to talk. You must be dying in all that." His hand moved toward her jacket and she stumbled back a step. He managed to keep up with her and somehow his arms ended up around her waist, head dipping down to her neck.

"I can't, Ryan," she pushed at his chest. "I'm all gross and sweaty. But we need to talk."

"Well, why don't we take a shower?" he suggested, either ignoring or oblivious to her repeated attempts to talk. "Showers are good," he murmured, hands sliding under her coat and pushing it off her shoulders. He managed to get two of her shirts and the pants off before her brain kicked back in.

"Ryan, stop." He froze, hands halfway up under her tank top, and pulled away slightly.

"Stop?"

"We need to talk," she breathed, voice shaky because it was _him_. She liked to pretend she wasn't completely ruled by her hormones and right now her higher brain was screaming at her, but her baser instincts didn't really care.

"Can we talk after?" he asked, running his thumb over her cheekbone, eyes glazed and dark. Hope flared painfully in her chest, and she looked up at him hesitantly, searching his eyes for the traces of the boy he used to be.

"Promise?" she whispered desperately, heart leaping into her throat when she could see _him._

"Promise," he grinned, kissing her again. She let him this time, feeling lighter than she had in a month and she didn't protest when he pulled off her last shirt and the shorts and leggings and socks. It felt good to be out of the clothes, especially with him warm and hard and pressed up against her.

She couldn't help it. She loved him so much. It was almost scary – how much he was her world. Everything she did, she had him in mind. Every piece of clothing she bought, she questioned whether he would like it. Her life revolved around him and maybe that wasn't healthy, but she couldn't stop it.

And now that things were going to go back to normal, she didn't _want_ to stop it.

* * *

The sheets were tangled around them, wet from their shower and subsequent stumble to the bed in the aftermath. Her head lay on his chest, finger tracing a heart over where his was beating under his skin. She felt light – content. Lighter than she had in the month since Kirsten's departure, because they were finally going to address all of his issues. She'd help him through this – his pain and anger. She'd help him through it and they'd go back to how they were before. The thought made her move her still-limp body.

"Ryan," she mumbled, pushing away from his chest, "we need to talk."

"No," he mumbled in protest, pulling her back into him and wrapping his arms tightly around her waist. "Too tired."

Normally she would let it go, but he'd _promised_ and it was important, so she broke out of his arms and sat up. "Really, Ryan, wake up."

"Tired," he said again and flipped onto his other side, facing away from her. Something in the pit of her stomach went cold, but she ignored that. He _promised _they could talk.

"Ryan, I'm serious," she tugged on his shoulder, trying to turn him.

"So am I." His voice was flat – no sense of the smiles he'd given her only thirty minutes before, no emotion whatsoever. Her blood froze in her veins, throat tightening unbearably.

"Ryan…" she whispered, hoping to God she was wrong. Hoping to God he _was_ just tired.

"Can't you ever just let something go?" he muttered, not even looking at her. Dead silence reigned through the pool house as he stared at the far wall and she tried not to cry.

"Fine." She slipped out of bed, swallowing hard to keep the lump in her throat from rising, to keep the tears from spilling. "I'll let it go." The rug was rough under her feet and her clothes clung to her body as she pulled them on, her wet hair plastering her shirt to her back. It was uncomfortable, but she didn't notice, hands shaking as she buttoned up her jeans.

"Good," he finally turned to her, frowning when he saw that she was dressed. "You leaving?"

"I'm leaving," she nodded, clarity hitting her like a cold rush of water. He wasn't going to talk; he wasn't going to change; he wasn't going to let her in. Somewhere along the way, she'd stopped being the person he went to and started being the girl who came around and got him off. She loved him - God, she loved him so much - but she wouldn't let herself be _that_ girl. She'd tried to help him, over and over again, but he didn't _want _to be helped. She had to get out of this, before he took her down with him. He already had her heart and her pride, she had to get out of here with the little shred of self-confidence she had left. "I'm just… _so_ leaving."

"What's that mean?" he questioned, voice still monotone, like he didn't really care. Like he was only asking because it was an obligation.

She was an obligation now.

"It means we're done," she managed to keep her voice stable, even though her hands were shaking as she gripped her purse. "I can't do this anymore."

"What?" _That_ caught his attention and he sat up, sheets falling off his chest and bunching around his waist.

"I can't do this," she said again, but this time it wavered slightly. "You... this... _us_. You never talk to me anymore, Ryan. You never tell me you love me. We never go out; we never do _anything_ but have sex." His silence was enough to get her anger rising and she took another deep breath. "I get it. I get that Kirsten going to rehab is hard on you – that losing another mother to alcohol is hard on you, but that is _no_ reason to take it out on me. So, unless you can tell me – right here, right now – that you still love me, we're done."

When he said absolutely nothing, she turned and left.

* * *

…

_**I'll get through somehow, I'm on my knees to pray**_

…

_

* * *

_

review


	2. Too High to Wonder Why

_Hm... so this is what happens when I ignore school: quick updates! Yay for procrastination! And for Friday! And for a three-day weekend!_

_Anyway, this chapter was supposed to go in a COMPLETELY different direction, but I suppose the chapter title got me to go off in the random direction this part takes. BTW, this is part 2 of 2, so it's the end._

_Enjoy!_

_Music: 'Lebanese Blonde' by Thievery Corporation, off the album 'The Mirror Conspiracy'_

* * *

…

_**too low to find my way, too high to wonder why**_

…

* * *

She wondered exactly when it was he'd fallen out of love with her.

Was it when Kirsten left? Because that's when things had changed. Or was it before that, and he'd only just realized it when everything got screwed up? She couldn't figure it out and she was sick of trying to. Besides, she was starting to see pictures in her ceiling, and since she already had questionable sanity, that couldn't be a good sign.

So she got out of bed and decided she'd go out. She had no idea where, but she _had_ to get out of her room – she'd been moping around for the past week, with her cell clutched in her hand, just waiting for him to call.

He never did.

Because he obviously wasn't in love with her anymore and she was done laying in her bed, staring at the ceiling and waiting for him to call. She was going out.

* * *

She made it as far as the driveway and now she was finding patterns in the clouds, which was much more normal than finding them in her ceiling. Plus, she was getting fresh air and sun this way – lying on the hood of her car and staring up at the bright blue sky. It was just enough shades off to _not _remind her of his eyes.

The fact that her car was most likely getting dirt on her khaki shorts and pink tank-top didn't bother her like it normally would. Nothing bothered her like it normally would anymore. She felt _off_, and it must be bad, because even her mother noticed.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and released, before opening them again. She needed to stop _thinking_ so much.

The sky was blue, the sun was bright and she would be ok on her own.

She hoped.

* * *

Two weeks later, she woke up with a migrane.

She hadn't had one in years, not since she was in middle school. The only good thing about them was they used to get her out of school. She remembered usually getting them right after someone called her a whore and everyone laughed.

Somewhere in the distance, her mother called through her door that she was going to work, but Taylor couldn't focus on that. All she could focus on was the splitting pain and the need to get rid of it. She rolled out of bed, hitting the floor, reaching out blindly to pull herself up. She couldn't open her eyes - she was sure the light would kill her - so she stumbled to the bathroom, pulling open the medicine cabinet.

* * *

"Taylor."

She looked up from the rack of clothes, eyes taking a while to focus on the two brunettes in front of her. "Seth, Summer," she greeted with a hazy smile as they shifted in and out of focus.

"Where have you been?" Summer huffed, folding her arms. "I've tried calling you, like, a million times."

"Oh, I turned off my phone two weeks ago," she waved her hand dismissively, turning back to the racks. She needed a new skirt, but she couldn't decide on one. Mostly because all the colors and edges blurred together, but still, she needed to decide.

"Right after you broke up with Ryan?" Seth's voice held an uncharacteristic level of spite that made some of her haze clear and she looked at him.

"Five days after," she corrected, tilting her head to the side. Seth's eyes narrowed and something in the back of her mind told her she'd never seen him angry before.

"You're not even upset about it," he accused.

"What's there to be upset about?" she asked, squinting her eyes a bit to focus as the pair split into doubles, triples, before merging back into themselves.

"You and Ryan breaking up." Now even _Summer_ sounded angry, but she really couldn't tell why. "He won't tell us why you did it and I've been trying to call you."

"Oh that," she nodded, her brain trying to remember the day it'd happened.

"_Oh that?_" Seth practically hissed.

"What's wrong with you?" Summer joined in, frowning, glaring.

"You're mad at me," she observed, not understanding why. What were they talking about?

"Hell yes, we're mad," Summer growled, eyes glinting. "Unless you can give us a _damn_ good reason you broke up with him when he needed you most."

"He doesn't need me," she smiled lazily, remembering now who they were talking about. "He's fine."

"Are you kidding me?" Seth cut in coldly, face going to stone. "My grandpa dies, my mom goes to rehab, his brother disappears, and you think he's _fine_?"

"He doesn't need me," she insisted, frowning because they weren't _getting_ it. Why weren't they? It was easy enough to see.

"You know Townsend, before Ryan got here, I used to think you were just a slutty bitch who liked to mess with people. I _thought_ I was wrong, but I guess not. I can't believe you'd use Ryan and just ditch him when things got rough."

The room spun around when they did and it took her a moment to reposition herself in the world. By the time she had her bearings, they were already stalking away. She blinked slowly and turned to the rack of skirts.

She needed a new one.

But she'd have better luck finding them if the lights weren't so bright in the store.

She didn't remember what had been on the label of the bottle, but she'd taken about five of her mom's pills and now she felt fine except for the bright lights.

* * *

Summer was pissed the hell off.

She'd been busting her ass this past month and a half taking care of Cohen – listening to his whining, going to stupid movies with him, letting him rant about idiotic things so it would take his mind off… everything. She did it because she _loved him_. He needed her and she let him grieve the loss of his mother.

But she was pissed the hell off because Taylor had turned out to be the bitch everyone thought she was. Seriously. She'd tried calling her supposed 'new best friend' a couple times before going to find Atwood – holed up in his room, reading and listening to music – to ask him where his girlfriend was. Only it turned out she'd dumped him the week before, but he hadn't deigned to tell them about it.

So she kept trying to call and when she only got voicemail – when no one opened the house door when she went over and rang the bell repeatedly – she thought Taylor had gone into a depression spiral.

Then she saw her at the mall, looking at a rack of men's shirts like she was actually shopping for herself. And the girl had been _completely unfazed_ by the breakup. She'd even _smiled_ when they mentioned it. That was when she realized that the school – that Marissa – had been right in their first assumption of the girl: she was a bitch and a slut. Obviously using Ryan – she'd had to hear about their sexual exploits _multiple_ times – until it got too heavy. She'd bailed because she was such a freaking _slut_.

If they'd found her at the mall, depressed and only in public to get a little retail therapy, it would mean she at least _cared_. But she'd been so blasé about the whole thing, it was obvious she didn't. In fact, at one point it seemed like she _forgot_ who they were talking about.

Taylor Townsend could rot in hell for using Atwood. And she'd make sure – when they got back to school in another month – that everyone would know.

* * *

It took her several tries to get the key into the lock, but she managed it. Her mom was gonna kill her for the scratches to the paint job, though. When the door was open, she sat heavily in the driver's seat, a little dejectedly. She hadn't found a skirt and the meeting with Seth and Summer left a curiously bitter taste in her mouth, but for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why.

It didn't matter, she supposed. She just wanted to go home and lie down. The lights in the stores had been too bright and they were making her nauseous and now even her headache was coming back. Maybe she should take some more of her mom's stuff? It had worked for a while - she hadn't felt anything. Plus, her mom was in Cabo for the month, so she wouldn't ever notice them missing.

Yeah, she'd take some more as soon as she got home. So she started the ignition and pulled out of her parking space, dimly aware of the sound of a horn blaring. The guy in the car behind her looked angry and she figured he must've had an unsuccessful trip at the mall, too.

The sun was nearly set behind the horizon and the road blurred in front of her. She blinked slowly to get it to readjust, but when she opened her eyes, it had split into two roads. Which one was she supposed to take? She couldn't remember two roads, but she went right, because right was always the better decision.

It was called 'right' for a reason.

Right?

* * *

Ryan sat on the sofa with Seth and Sandy, eating his pizza. They didn't eat dinner at the kitchen table anymore – not without Kirsten. None of them could sit there and not notice her chair was empty.

He tried watching whatever ninja movie Seth had put in, but he couldn't really care. He was done with caring. What was the point, really? Nothing mattered, nothing lasted. Everyone left. Mom. Theresa. Trey. Kirsten. Taylor.

Everyone he'd ever loved left him, so really, what was the point in caring? He hadn't even told Seth and Summer and Sandy about Taylor breaking up with him. He figured it wasn't that important. She was better off without him and he was better off without her. He was better off alone, he'd come to accept that now.

He was ok, despite the way Seth and Summer had reacted when he _had_ told them – when Summer asked. He didn't even blame Taylor for breaking up with him. Truthfully, he relished the peace he got now. None of her nagging questions and _reading his mind_. He didn't want to _talk_, but she never seemed to _get_ that. She just kept bugging him and the only way to shut her up was to fuck her, which he was always up for. Spending time in Taylor took his mind off everything else - connected him with something _alive _again_, _if only for a while. But that was over now.

The phone rang and for a wild moment, he hoped it was Kirsten calling, but he shook it off quickly. The saddest part was, he saw the same painful hope in Seth's eyes for a second. Sandy stood and went into the kitchen to answer.

Minutes later, he came back in, looking drained and worn out. "We're going to the hospital," he informed them. He and Seth stood up and put their plates down on top of the multiple piles of crap that had accrued since Taylor stopped coming around and cleaning up after them.

"So who died this time?" he asked jadedly, following Sandy and Seth outside. Seth didn't even flinch when he said it, either, because nothing would shock them now. He just kind of hoped it wasn't Summer – she _had_ been pissed off when she and Seth got back from the mall. She hadn't told him why, she'd just left in a huff. Who knew what trouble she could get into in one of her rage-blackouts?

* * *

"Why are we here?" Summer shifted from foot to foot next to him, looking like she wasn't sure whether she should be pissed off or concerned. To be honest, he couldn't decide either.

All they knew was that Taylor was in the hospital after crashing her car into a tree and the doctors had said something about high levels of valium in her bloodstream. Her mother was – apparently – out of the country and Taylor had muttered something about _Sandy Cohen_ when they'd been trying to question her.

So he and Summer were trying to figure out if they'd just been _completely _wrong about Taylor this entire time. Had she really been some – as Summer called her – bitchy slut addicted to valium this whole time and they hadn't seen it? He couldn't believe something like valium addiction could slip by them, but honestly, he was always so wrapped up in himself, maybe he hadn't noticed his brother's girlfriend was a druggie.

Speaking of his brother, Ryan was absolutely white as he sat in the waiting room, eyes fixed on a potted plant across the room. He couldn't imagine what Ryan was going through – he couldn't even _imagine_ if it were Summer in the room just down the hall, hanging on by a thread.

Because – whatever Taylor's participation in the relationship – he _knew_ his brother loved her, even if he'd been trying to act like the breakup didn't matter.

* * *

She opened her eyes to bright sunlight and immediately shut them again, groaning as her pupils protested.

"Taylor?" Sandy Cohen's hesitant voice made her open them again and she focused on the man standing over her.

"Hi Mr. Cohen," she sighed, shutting her eyes again.

"She's awake?" It was Ryan that spoke this time, voice choked, sounding strange to her ears. Why was he upset? Did she fall asleep in the pool house again? Had Sandy caught them? Is that why Ryan was upset?

"I can't feel my feet," she mumbled, frowning. Experimentally, she tried to curl her toes and found she could. "Oh, there they are." For some reason, that made her giggle and she did so, letting her eyes crack open slightly – allowing the minimal amount of light in. Through her lashes, she could see Sandy still standing over her, looking more upset than he had the first time she looked.

Maybe it was the giggling? She should stop.

"Shit, Taylor, what the hell were you trying to do?" Ryan stepped forward next to his father, cutting off what the man had been about to say.

"You look pretty in blue," she informed him with a smile, confused when he flinched back a little.

"She's delirious," Sandy murmured to his son worriedly.

"Am I in the pool house?" she asked, trying to sit up. "Did we do something wrong? Are you going to lecture us again?" The one day Sandy had walked in on them in the act had lead to a highly uncomfortable conversation about babies and STDs and the wrath of God.

"Taylor, you almost overdosed on valium and drove your car off the road," the man said bluntly and she frowned.

"Well, that was silly of me. Is my car ok?"

"Is your _car_ ok?" Ryan raged, voice deadly soft. "Didn't you hear him? What the hell possessed you?"

She scrunched up her forehead as she tried to think back. She couldn't remember _driving_ anywhere, but she remembered the mall and her awful headache and those pretty pills with the little Vs on them. "I had a headache," she decided, remembering.

"_A headache?_" Ryan's voice rose a little, jaw clenching. He was being a little overdramatic, she decided, and sighed at him.

"It was a bad headache," she reasoned, frowning. "Mom always says they help her relax."

"Says the future valedictorian of Harbor," Seth's quiet voice sounded from behind them – she hadn't even noticed him there.

"I'm not ready to give my speech," she informed them, wondering why she hadn't even written it yet, if she was valedictorian.

"Fuck," Ryan growled, Sandy turning to him sharply, but the man didn't correct his son, which she thought was strange.

"Don't curse, Ryan," she hummed, closing her eyes. "It's not ladylike." Off to the side, Seth snorted.

"She needs to rest," Sandy decided, struggling to get Ryan out of the room. She didn't want him to go but she wanted to sleep, too.

* * *

He sat by her bed and watched her sleep, skin pale. He could see the veins across her eyelids, lips chapped and cracking.

What the hell had she been thinking? Valium? He knew her mom had multiple bottles of pills laying around and there was a good chance she'd just mixed up bottles, but still. She'd crashed into a tree, for God's sake.

And he was pissed off that it had taken _that_ to finally snap him out of it. 'It' being the complete depression he'd been in for the last month and a half, since Kirsten left. He'd taken brooding to a whole new level and it made him sick to his stomach to realize that he could've avoided all this – Taylor here, in the hospital – if he'd just _told_ her that his silence was his way of coping with it all. If he'd just _told_ her that yes, he still loved her but it would take him a while to adjust to life without Kirsten, then she wouldn't be here.

But _love_ had seemed like such a mistake, because everyone he loved left. So he hadn't said it to her and she left anyway.

Although, he'd never actually told Kirsten he loved her. And now that he thought about it, he'd never said it to Trey or mom or Theresa, either. So maybe it wasn't love that made them go away, maybe it was just life.

"Taylor," he squeezed her hand, hoping to wake her up, just a little bit. "I love you." It sounded cheesy to him, but her eyes flickered and her mouth curled up into a smile and he felt something strange bubble up in his chest. "Were you pretending to be asleep so I'd say it?"

"Maybe," her smile got wider and she opened her eyes to look at him. He noticed they were still glassy – she was still out of it, but obviously she was getting better. "That's all I wanted."

"You suck," he told her, keeping the relentless _hope_ out of his voice; hope that he'd done the right thing this time

"You do, too," she smiled back.

"I know."

"So are you done using me for my body yet?" she tried to sound nonchalant and lift their joined hands off the bed, but didn't quite manage it.

"Well," he kept his voice deliberately monotone, "I'm done using you _for_ your body. But I don't think I'll ever be able to stop using your body."

She giggled, shaking her head at him. "That was so bad, Ryan." He grinned back at her, hoping her – surprisingly quick – forgiveness wasn't just a product of the drugs they were currently supplying her with.

"I'm sorry," he told her, deciding to get it out now.

"I know," she sighed, closing her eyes again. "Sorry I broke up with you. It was either that or kick you in the balls."

"I'm surprised you went for the _or_ situation. After how you handled Marissa, I wouldn't be surprised if you went for the 'kicked me in the balls _then_ broke up with me' approach."

"Oh, well, I never thought of that," she smiled lazily, keeping her hand in his.

Something in him lifted and he felt better than he had for a while – not completely, the ghost of Kirsten was still hovering over him. But better, because Taylor was ok with him being an idiot. He still wasn't sure why she kept taking him back.

"I love you," he told her again.

Her lips stretched into a grin.

"Yeah."

* * *

…

_**I've touched this place before, somewhere in another time**_

…

_

* * *

_

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